The Curious Case of The Evolving Caterpillar
I remember ever so clearly how that pain, that searing and massive pain pulsated through my veins, through the ventricles of my heart, and entered directly into my core. I remember the never-ending tears and the sensation of a heavy heart, that somehow obstructed my airways. My weighty heart in combination with my tears made it hard to breathe. Literally.
This is kind of embarrassing to be honest, writing about how I felt after the sudden death of a three-year relationship. I’ve always thought of myself as being resilient and tough. You know, not giving two shits about the end of a relationship. I’ve always thought it bizarre to see women in mushy rom-coms cry themselves to sleep OVER A MAN! I secretly wanted to punch Kambili in the face in the movie, Kambili: The Whole 30 Yards, when she somehow made her identity revolve around some schmuck who demolished her self-esteem. Give me a break. I’ve always miraculously and speedily healed from shattered relationships. This breakup was different though. Mr. X with the dashing eyes and phantom D, who I fell hopelessly and madly in love with, left without an explanation. There was no closure. I was ghosted and left in the dark to overcome the draining emotions that gripped me ever so tightly. I suddenly saw myself like those women in the mushy rom-coms, crying uncontrollable tears with a bucket of ice cream and used tissues thrown around the house. But that was two years ago when I was a totally different person. That pain made me metamorphose into a whole new being. A person with more umph, sass, emotional maturity and a beautifully guarded heart.
The pain I felt from the loss of that relationship happened a couple of months after the death of my grandmother. A gentle and endearing soul. She had been steadfastly my only grandparent since I was 6 years old, yup a long time. Every time I visited her, she would show me pictures of her youth, her dance troupe, her young children, of which my mother is the seventh of her eleven. To her, I was Olachi and to me, she was Grandmaaaa. I remember the delicious taste of her meticulously crafted Ugu soup made with fresh leaves plucked from her backyard. Christmas two years ago, couldn’t come any sooner, as I couldn’t wait to spend precious time with her, so when I heard of her death two weeks before my anticipated visit, the pain this time wasn’t searing. It didn’t pulsate through my veins and into my heart. Instead, I was numb. I surprisingly couldn’t cry, instead, the memories of her smile, her tender touch, her pictures, and the Holy Mary tattoo on her arm, rushed into my brain and gave me a headache. The tears eventually came though, as her coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. The tears weren’t painful, they were calm, in sync with the classical music that was playing in the background. The death of my grandma made me suddenly realize that life is short. It made me think of the million and one things I was yet to accomplish. Before her death, I took life for granted. Now, not so much.
Speaking of death, Peggy’s gone too. Peggy is my British alter-ego who curiously would only pop out to make people laugh. In case you were wondering, I am Nigerian-American. A totally different identity from Peggy, but I adored and cherished her. Her British mannerisms, accent, and culture were appealing. How Peggy is British, given my Nigerian-American-ness, beats me.
Peggy even came out when she interviewed people at a Toastmasters contest, making the contestants burst out in laughter and give warm hugs. Peggy was likable, funny, and spontaneous. But Peggy was also a crutch. She had blinders on, preventing her from seeing, handling and overcoming the harsh stings of the big, bad world. After the deaths of my beloved grandma and my relationship, Peggy, my fierce protector, would have popped out like a ninja, preventing me from feeling the raw, emotional scars that I have since learned from. Now she is lodged deep in my subconscious like a caged animal with no idea of when she would break free.
Peggy was related to the old me. They were like siblings, in which Peggy was the older, tougher, and more outgoing big sister of my old cowering and apprehensive self. The old me was a soft-spoken and shy person who had no say in the direction of her life and existence. My career was pre-determined by my parents, probably before I was born. They were laser-focused on their daughter being a surgeon. Publicly she was a good, outstanding citizen, but inwardly her heart and head were constantly at war. Her head told her to give up her happiness and please those around her by having a science-related career, but her heart was in the arts. The old me wouldn’t dare say she adores writing and wants to consider a career in it, for fear of the nasty criticisms and condescending outbursts that would ensue. The old me aimed to please, and please she did. The imprisonment of Peggy gave way to the resurrection of the new me. The one who doesn’t care about people’s opinions and writes anyway, like I’m doing now. I celebrated the appearance of the new me by starting a new business and relocating across the world with the grit needed to be brazen and bold in my new venture. I am like a caterpillar, metamorphosing into different stages. With all my brazenness and boldness, I am now handing over the reins of my business, that I so looked forward to starting and building. Also, I will be relocating back to where I came from. But wait, this current death of my time as an entrepreneur in this place I moved to, does not mean I would transition back to the old, timid me, you know, the one who didn’t have authority over her life.
Remember, I am like a caterpillar, metamorphosing into different stages. I am cautiously optimistic about what this new stage would bring. By that time, I may have finally grown wings.
